


In Sickness and in Health

by Khiori63



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4414307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khiori63/pseuds/Khiori63
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An "after the credits" scene from "Journey to Babel"</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sickness and in Health

       The spoon bouncing off the wall mere centimeters from his head was, to use a human colloquialism, “the last straw.” Even Vulcan patience had its limits, and Spock’s was very nearly exhausted. He turned, careful to keep all traces of annoyance from his features.

      “Is something wrong?”

      Although Spock knew the utensil had been thrown with the clear intent of missing its target, the bed’s current occupant did not appear the least bit apologetic, although the action had apparently pulled at the still-healing wound in his side. The sight of his bondmate hunched over, arms wrapped around his stomach, in obvious pain, served as a vivid reminder of recent unpleasant events. Under normal circumstances, it would have him instantly at Kirk’s side, offering silent, sympathetic support.

      But not now.

      “Yes, damn it, there’s something wrong! All I’ve had for the past ten days is soup and more soup. I can’t stomach it anymore! Why don’t you go tell McCoy I want some solid food for a change?”

      “I shall pass on your request, however, I doubt the doctor will comply. Your injuries—”

      “I don’t need a lecture, Spock, I need real food.” Kirk shoved the nightstand to one side, sending the bowl rattling and its contents sloshing over the side and onto the tray. Yet another task requiring Spock’s attention. He suppressed a sigh.

      “Jim, although this may not be your usual fare, it is important you do not deprive yourself of nutrition. Otherwise, you could delay your recovery.”

      “Yeah, well, forget it. I’m not hungry.” Kirk gave him a defiant look before turning slowly, painfully onto his side, away from both his dinner and Spock.

      Any thoughts of pressing the matter quickly vanished. If Jim chose to prolong his convalescence with such childish behavior, then so be it.

      “As you wish.”

      He turned on his heel and entered his own quarters through the adjoining door. As it slid shut, allowing for a rare moment of solitude, he leaned wearily against the wall and closed his eyes.

      Ten days, indeed. Ten days since that desperate call over the intercom, the beloved voice filled with pain, struggling to get the words out: “…I’ve been attacked….” Ten days since he’d cradled the limp body against his own, desperately trying to staunch the blood soaking the green tunic. Ten days since he’d battled to control the fear and panic he couldn’t deny as he waited those first few hours to see if Jim would live or die. Ten days since he’d stood over the still form in sickbay, McCoy’s pronouncement Kirk would survive providing much needed comfort.

      Ten days. Not too long ago to be reminded how much this one being meant to him. Long enough to realize if Kirk didn’t survive neither would Spock, as he had no desire to continue his own existence without the lifeforce that was his bondmate. Not too long ago to recall the tremendous joy and relief when Jim opened his eyes and spoke his name. No, not too long at all.

      A moan sounded from behind the door, barely discernable even to his Vulcan ears. No doubt Jim was shifting position again, in another vain attempt to get comfortable. It was a complaint his bondmate had voiced numerous times the past eight days. No matter what position he tried, he was unable to find one that did not eventually aggravate his injury. For a moment Spock considered returning but quickly dismissed the thought. Doing so would likely subject him to another display of his bondmate’s increasingly short temper. Instead, he pushed himself away from the wall and headed toward his desk. He sank into the chair and contacted sickbay.

      “McCoy here.”

      “Doctor, the captain has a request.”

      “Oh, he does, does he? Well, it better not have anything to do with him going back to the bridge.”

      Spock shook his head. “Negative. He is, however, dissatisfied with his current repast and wishes for something more substantial.”

      “Like what?”

      “He did not mention specifics.”

      “Hmm. Let me think about it and I’ll get back to you.”

      “Acknowledged.” As he terminated the connection, Spock noted his hands were shaking, as they were wont to do without warning since the attack. It was an outward manifestation of how intense those memories still were, when he’d long for Jim to speak, say anything, even complain, if only to provide much-needed reassurance his bondmate would survive. Yet at this moment Spock was alone, having abandoned his charge—albeit temporarily—due to the very behavior he would have gladly tolerated just days earlier….

      His terminal beeped, interrupting his thoughts. “Spock here.”

      “McCoy. I’ve added a few things to Jim’s meal card. I suggest you try the first one. I’ll be surprised if he turns it down.”

      “Thank you, Doctor.”

      “You’re welcome. And tell Jim I’ll be up to check on him in a few hours.”

      “I shall do so.”

      Spock rose and went to the servo-unit, punching in the appropriate code. As the panel slid back, an eyebrow rose at what rested inside—a sandwich and a glass of milk. While the former was not unusual, the latter certainly was. Jim was a coffee drinker and Spock could not recall his bondmate ever consuming this particular beverage. Why McCoy would make such a choice was a mystery, which deepened when he picked up the tray. A cautious sniff revealed whatever lay between the bread was not Jim’s usual chicken salad, but had a slightly less familiar odor. Peanut butter? Spock, after much persuasion from McCoy that such fare would “put some meat on his bones,” had once sampled the substance and found it not at all to his liking. Whether Jim shared his distaste was unknown, but McCoy _had_ implied it was something the captain would enjoy. Spock would have to trust his judgment.

      He returned to Jim’s quarters, pausing just inside as the door closed. All was quiet and Spock wondered if his bondmate had dozed off again, as he often did since his release from sickbay. It was impossible to determine from the motionless figure curled away from him.

      “Jim?”

      For a moment, there was no reply, then, “Thought you left.”

      There was no mistaking the gruff tone. Obviously Jim was upset by his abrupt departure, one which Spock was beginning to regret. Ill temper or not, he couldn’t deny that once his bondmate had been released to his quarters, Spock had determined to attend all his needs, even when some tasks were less than pleasant. Jim had been extremely weak at first, requiring almost complete care, and the opportunity to furnish it had proven therapeutic for Spock as well. This man’s existence was essential to his own, and he was intent on providing any assistance he could to aid Jim’s recovery. Even if it meant bearing the brunt of his bondmate’s ever-increasing contentious behavior.

      “Merely to fulfill your request.”

      That brought an immediate response as Kirk gingerly rolled onto his back. He propped himself up on one elbow. “What is it?”

      Spock held out the tray. “Peanut butter, I believe.”

      “And jelly?”

      Spock’s eyebrow rose again. He lifted a corner of the bread. “Indeed.”

      “Grape jelly?” There was no mistaking the hopeful tone in his voice. Spock nodded. Apparently McCoy’s assumption was correct.

      “Great!” Kirk began to sit up, only to stiffen, then sag back with a deep groan as his weight pulled on his injury. Alarmed, Spock practically dropped the tray onto the nearby desk and in two strides was by the bed. He gently eased Kirk back down.

      “Remain still.” Spock gently but firmly pried his bondmate’s fingers away from his side and cautiously shifted the bandage. While the wound was sealed, the area was still tender and could reopen with too much strain. A thorough examination, however, revealed no sign of damage, just the angry red scar that served as a graphic reminder of how close Spock had come to losing this most precious being.

      Relieved, he pulled the bandage back in place and slowly, carefully settled Jim against the headboard. He curled a hand behind his bondmate’s neck and began a gentle massage, loosening muscles that had tightened against the pain. Slowly they responded and Jim’s eyes opened to meet his own.

      “Thanks.”

      Spock inclined his head toward the hastily abandoned tray. “If you wish, I can retrieve your meal.”

      “In a minute.” Kirk leaned forward, allowing access to his shoulders and back. Spock took the hint and continued the massage. _Trust,_ he mused, as his fingers kneaded and squeezed. It had always been this way between them, almost from the beginning, most obvious at times such as these, with one truly dependent on the other. Once established, Spock had never lost his trust in Kirk, even in the throes of his first pon farr, when during the heat of combat he’d barely recognized his captain. When his cycle returned three years later, that same trust had carried them both through that difficult time, not as combatants, but as lovers. Now, with Jim recuperating but still in need of assistance, his trust in Spock allowed his independent, stubborn nature to yield to his bondmate’s ministrations, a privilege for which Spock was grateful. Even before they were bondmates, their relationship had never been based on duty or debt; rather the foundation lay in Jim’s willingness to accept him as he was, to extend a hand in friendship and trust, and to ask for nothing in return. It was an offer a lonely, half-breed Vulcan found impossible to resist.

      He was distracted from his thoughts as a familiar sound reached his ears. Jim was snoring softly, chin against chest, yet somehow still upright. He looked peaceful, but Spock grew concerned. Remaining in that position could prove detrimental to his injury, a possibility Spock was not willing to risk. He grasped a shoulder and gave a gentle shake. “Jim?”

      “Lemme alone.” The words were slurred.

      The order was ignored. “Jim, please, wake up.”

      Kirk raised his head and his eyes met Spock’s, his features reflecting annoyance and irritation. “What?!”

      Spock pulled back slightly at the rather vehement response, but would not be deterred. “If you wish to sleep, it is best you lie down to do so. I can assist….”

      A hand waved him to silence. “Forget it, Spock. I’ll take that sandwich now, if you don’t mind.”

      “No, Jim, I do not mind.” Spock rose and retrieved the tray, placing it on the night stand. He removed the bowl of soup and deposited it in the disposal unit. When he returned, he was surprised to see much of the sandwich had disappeared.

      “Am I to understand you are satisfied with your meal?”

      “Delicious.” Kirk picked up the milk and nearly drained the glass. “Boy, that hits the spot.”

      Spock gave him a puzzled look.

      “What is it?”

      “I was not aware of your fondness for milk. It is not normally something you consume.”

      “True, but nothing goes better with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It used to be my favorite lunch when I was a kid.” He held out what little remained. “Wanna bite?”

      Spock involuntarily took a step back. “No, thank you.”

      “Don’t you even want to try it?”

      Spock shook his head, swallowing against the queasiness rising in his stomach.

      “Too bad. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

      “On the contrary, I do indeed know what I am ‘missing’.”

      Kirk shrugged, then quickly finished his sandwich and the last of his milk. Once again, Spock tidied up before lending his assistance as his bondmate eased himself back down. A hiss and a sharp “Watch it!” and he quickly adjusted his hold, trying to make the process as painless as possible. Soon, Jim was settled comfortably and the hand that had been clutching his own squeezed once in thanks before releasing its grip. Spock began to draw the covers up, only to have Kirk push them aside. A hand patted the mattress.

      “Come here.”

      “Jim, no, it is not wise….”

      Kirk rolled his eyes. “Spock, I don’t want to make love.” He gestured toward the chair next to the bed, which Spock had occupied all night, every night, since Kirk’s return to his quarters. “I just figured it’s about time you got a decent night’s sleep.” His voice hardened slightly. “Now get over here.”

      There was no arguing with that tone. Reluctantly, carefully, Spock lay down next to his bondmate. The covers were pulled over him and a hand guided his head to the firm chest. He lay still, listening to the steady thump, thump, thump, the rhythmic beat filling him with a sense of peace and contentment.

      A hand gave a gentle nudge. “Hey.”

      Spock’s eyes rose to meet rather contrite ones.

      “Sorry.”

      Spock’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “I do not understand. For what reason do you feel you must apologize?”

      “Because of the way I’ve been treating you lately. I know you’re only trying to help, and instead of being grateful for and appreciating your efforts, I’ve used you as a convenient target for all my frustration. Not too many people would put up with that.”

      “Your reaction is quite understandable. You have always had a low tolerance for any situation that requires you to remain inactive. It is not your nature.”

      Kirk snorted. “Now you sound like a diplomat. Sure you didn’t take any lessons from your father before he left?”

      Spock allowed a tiny smile to form. “If you are going to insult me, I shall leave.”

      “Sorry again.” There was a pause, then, “I know I’m not making this easy on you, but I’m glad you’re here.”

      “As am I.”

      Lips brushed against his forehead. “Goodnight, Spock.”

      “Goodnight, Jim.”

      As his bondmate’s breathing settled into the normal pattern of sleep, Spock shifted closer, savoring the living warmth of the body pressed against his own. In the end, this was what it was all about. Not about needs or desires, but about trust and loyalty and love. Their relationship, both as friends and as lovers, had its own fulfillments and sources of strength to draw from. Even more so, it was totally mutual, despite illness or injury or—he allowed another tiny smile—short tempers.

      Soon they would be back on duty, resuming their normal routines, both on the bridge and in their bed. But until then, even with a “grumpy” bondmate, the current situation was not unpleasant.

      No, not unpleasant at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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End file.
